


A Peculiar Closeness

by cookiesandscream



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Inexperience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:03:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiesandscream/pseuds/cookiesandscream
Summary: Lasky muses about touch starvation, Chief wishes he were less out of his depth(Featuring an entirely self-indulgent focus on giving up control)





	1. Chapter 1

Spartans weren’t good at physical affection, that much Lasky knew. He’d assumed at first that they didn’t like it. That was only partly true. They were unfamiliar with it and far too wary, but paradoxically, they still seemed to crave it. Lasky had heard it described as being “touch-starved.” He’d also heard someone--he couldn’t remember who--call it “skin hunger,” but he found the other term less gross.

Anyway, skin hunger or no, the fact remained that Spartans were terrible at affection. It was almost amusing--they were built to be the best at everything, but the UNSC had apparently missed a couple skills on their checklist.

Case in point: Even once he was comfortable enough to let Lasky touch him for more than a couple seconds, Chief would never initiate contact. Instead, he hovered, standing like an uncomfortable specter in Lasky’s periphery until he asked

“Something you want, John?”

at which point John turned red and retreated into himself. So Thomas Lasky learned to pick up the slack. He didn’t really mind. Whatever it was that they had, it made him happy to hold Chief against himself, press the two of them together and feel the other relax (for once in his goddamn life) in his grip. It filled his chest with a strange heat when he looked at John curled against him, stripped of his helmet and armor, vulnerable and unaccustomed to the open air, and realized this was something nobody else had seen.

They’d kissed a couple times, and that was something he _knew_ no one else had seen. It had been clumsy, and the first time it happened John pulled back afterwards to cover his face.

“Sorry,” he’d said, voice muffled behind his hand, “I um. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Lasky pulled the hand away and grasped his face by the jaw, turning it back towards him with a firm but gentle grasp.

“I’ll show you,” he’d said.

So John liked to be touched, and he liked whatever nameless thing it was he shared with Lasky, and he liked to be kissed. He liked being told what to do and how to do it instead of having to figure it out himself. And surprisingly, if their current position was any indication, he liked to be manhandled.

They were in Lasky’s quarters. Lasky had John braced under him, bracketed on either side by his arms. John staying pinned was pointless, since they both knew he could toss Lasky off without a second thought if he’d wanted to, but Lasky appreciated the gesture. He kissed him on the cheek before John turned his head to catch his next kiss on the mouth. Lasky laughed into the kiss, and John pulled back.

“What’s so funny?”

  
“Nothing,” he replied, “I was just thinking that you’re a fast learner.”

“I’d sure hope so,” John said, grinning, “Or else the Spartan program wasted a shit-ton of money trying to make me one.”

Lasky ran a hand through John’s hair (just past regulation length, but nobody really wanted to press the Chief on it) and felt him lean into the touch. He kissed him again, this time on the temple he’d just brushed free of hair. When John turned to catch his mouth, he anticipated it, moved and kissed the other side of his face instead.

“Get back here, asshole,” John said without malice.

Lasky laughed quietly, a rush of air from his nose that ruffled John’s hair and tickled against his skin. He pressed his mouth to John’s jaw, then the side of his neck, and felt him tense under his weight.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Lasky said. John had gone stock-still, frozen with what Lasky now recognized as the specific brand of nervousness that manifested in the face of the unfamiliar. John said nothing, but nodded in reply. Lasky kissed him again, properly this time, and hiked up his shirt’s hem. John’s chest was riddled with scars, jagged ones earned in battle overlapping with the precise surgical lines underneath. A handful of adhesive bandages were scattered across one side of his torso, and Lasky brushed a hand over them.

“What happened here?”

“Nothing,” John muttered. Lasky looked back, nonplussed. “Nothing serious, _Captain.”_

Lasky laughed and sat up.

“I think, given our current circumstances, you can use my name,” he said, brushing a thumb over one of the criss-crossing scars, “Unless you want me to call you by your full title too.”

“God, no,” John replied. Lasky could feel his half-bare chest shaking with silent laughter.

“Well if you don’t mind, _Chief,_ I’m going to get this out of the way.” Lasky pulled at the shirt’s hem again, and John obliged, extending both arms over his head so he could pull it off. Lasky balled up the regulation-grey fabric and tossed it against the regulation-grey wall. John’s body temperature always felt abnormally high, almost feverish, and the effect was doubled without fabric separating them.

“You’re warm,” Lasky said against his skin, “Is that a Spartan thing or a you thing?”

John shrugged. He’d have to ask someone else if he wanted to know, he supposed, though asking that question at all would raise a whole lot of other questions in whoever he spoke to. For the time being, though, he kissed John again, longer this time, and brushed the pad of his thumb over one nipple. He felt John’s body twitch in response.

“Oh,” said John.

“Sorry,” said Lasky, withdrawing the hand.

“No, it’s fine,” John said, pink spreading across his cheeks, “You’re, uh- I appreciate that you’re worried about me. But it’s fine.”

“Just fine?” John’s flush spread. Lasky imagined he could feel the heat radiating from his face this close.

“I-” John’s voice was quiet now, his face turned so his words were directed somewhere past Lasky’s right shoulder. “I like it when you, y’know, take charge. I don’t always want to be in control of everything, Tom, and it’s not like I really know what I’m doing here anyway.”

“I see,” Lasky said. He brushed his thumb again, harder than before, and didn’t stop when John jolted this time. Instead, he covered John’s mouth with his own and swallowed the noise he made. One of his knees was planted between John’s legs and he pressed it more firmly against him.

John muttered something breathy and incomprehensible. His eyes were squeezed shut, his eyebrows pulled tight. If he didn’t know better, Lasky would say he looked like he was in pain.

“Still okay?” he asked.

“Yes, I already- _Shit!_ ”

Lasky pulled his hand from where he’d slipped it below John’s waistband.

“I said I was fine,” John panted, indignant despite his red face and state of undress.

“I know, just give me a second,” Lasky replied, unzipping the fly of John’s pants, shoving them down, and sitting up to let John's thighs rest on top of his own folded legs. Finally, he put his hand back. “Better?”

John didn’t answer. His teeth were buried in his lower lip and his hands clenched in tight fists. Lasky kept moving his hand, listening to John’s breath come heavy and uneven while he reached for a nearby drawer with his other. John opened one eye. His pupil was blown, blue iris reduced to a small ring around the edge.

“You keep lube in your quarters?”

“You know what lube is?” Lasky shot back, only half joking.

“I’m repressed, not stupid,” John muttered.

“And I don’t jack off dry,” Lasky continued, pouring some into his hand, “Obviously.”

“People use it for that?” John had started to sit up, fascinated.

“This is why I thought you wouldn’t know what it was,” Lasky said, amused. He pushed John back down with his clean hand. With the other, he stroked him slowly and watched John’s eyes squeeze closed again. A quiet stream of curses flowed from his mouth. Lasky poured more lube onto his hand and paused.

“Again, tell me to stop and I will.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Lasky pressed one finger into him, slowly, and watched John shift slightly at the initial discomfort before pushing his hips down for more.

“Shh, just wait.” Lasky moved until he could feel him relax, then added a second. He curled them, dragged them out and pushed back in, watched John writhe around the fulcrum of his fingers. Intermittently, he'd press the right spot and John's whole body would twitch under him. How bizarre, he thought, that he had the privilege to see him so completely undone. That he was probably the only person who had ever seen this. His pants felt entirely too tight.

He stroked John once, twice, and felt him spill over his fingers.

For his part, John looked exhausted. His hairline was wet with sweat and his eyes were half-open over the flush of his cheeks. The rest of his body, however, had not flagged in the slightest.

“Is that, uh,” Lasky gestured to the erection that still jutted towards him, “Is that normal?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” John pushed a strand of hair off his forehead, “It takes a couple. When I’m by myself, at least.”

“You mean you’ve-” Lasky cut himself off.

“Once or twice,” John muttered, looking far too bashful for someone who’d just been fingered by a coworker, “I was curious.”

“A couple?” Lasky repeated. John shrugged, refusing to meet his eyes. “Christ.” He pulled his shirt over his head and unzipped his own pants before kissing John. “I guess I’d better do something about that.”

He picked back up where he’d left off, pleased to see the stretch from his fingers remained. He worked them in again slowly, scissored them against the muscle, tried to see what made John twitch and shudder against him. He’d added a third at some point and John was grinding against them unabashedly. 

“Shit,” John gasped, “Please, please, please-”

“Please?” Lasky echoed, feigning a casual tone despite the desire coiling hot in his own gut. 

“Stop teasing,” John sobbed, cutting off abruptly as Lasky curled his fingers again, “Please stop teasing and fuck me.”

The plea shot straight to his cock. It was bold, especially for someone as verbally withdrawn as John, and Lasky had no intention of denying him.

He leveled his breathing, or tried to, as he fumbled through his drawer again to fish out a long-unused condom. Someone had probably given it to him as a joke, come to think of it. Whatever. He had more important things to deal with, he thought, carefully lining himself up. John hissed through his teeth when Lasky pushed into him. His hands scrabbled for something to hold onto, and Lasky grabbed one of them in his own. He squeezed it.

“You’re alright?”

John nodded, eyes shut once more. Strands of hair now wet with sweat clung to his forehead and Lasky pushed them away with his free hand before he started to move.

“Fuck,” John whispered, “Fuck, Lasky, holy shit.”

“I know,” Lasky said, his own breath coming short and fast now. He took John in his hand again, more roughly than he had before. He was dimly aware of John’s hand in the other one’s grip squeezing back just tighter than was comfortable, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

It didn’t take long to push John over the edge. He made a noise, muffled behind his palm, and his entire body seized for a moment before he came across both their stomachs. Lasky followed him soon after, still clutching John’s hand. John made an undignified yelp when he pulled out to roll over and lie next to him. One of the adhesive bandages on his chest was newly stained with a small spot of red and Lasky felt a pang of guilt for reopening the wound. John noticed him staring and inspected the bandage.

“S’fine,” he said, smiling sleepily, “And it’s worth it anyway.”

Lasky laughed and kissed him firmly before retrieving his shirt to wipe them off.

“Gross,” John said, turning to bury his face in the crook of Lasky’s neck.

“I can wash it,” Lasky replied absently, one hand running through the short hair at the back of John’s head.

So maybe Spartans weren’t bad at physical affection. Skittish, yes, and inexperienced, but--he smiled against John’s too-hot skin, riddled with pale scars--far from bad at it.


	2. Chapter 2

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m trying to be spontaneous,” said John from where he’d ducked under Lasky’s elbow to rest his head on his leg.

“Well, I’m trying to read,” Lasky responded, though he put his reading aside as he said it. 

“Then I guess neither of us are doing very well,” John, flushed, shifted his weight as if to leave, but Tom gently pressed him back into his lap. 

“You can stay, you know,” he said. John crossed his arms and refused to meet his eyes. “And I appreciate it.” 

“Appreciate what?” John didn’t uncross his arms, but he relaxed slightly and leaned his warm, solid weight against Tom’s leg.

“I know initiating things isn’t easy for you. I appreciate that you push yourself for my sake.” Tom ruffled John’s hair. He gave an unguarded smile at that, teeth glinting in the light of the screen off to the side, and his eyes squinted shut. It made Tom think of a cat. A big, deadly cat, he thought, carding his fingers through the messy hair, a housecat with a body count. He returned to his reading one-handed and continued running a hand over John’s head. 

By the time Lasky finished his reading, John was curled against his side, his breathing slow and even. His body was, as always, abnormally warm, and Tom could feel the heat even through the layers of fabric between them. Whatever it was they had, whatever he wanted to call it, had been going on for a few weeks now, and it filled Lasky with an almost unbearable fondness when he thought about how much more comfortable John had become with affection. He smiled to himself and bent to kiss John on the forehead. 

“I’m not asleep,” John mumbled sleepily. He pressed himself closer to Tom’s side, unabashedly seeking physical contact in a way that would’ve embarrassed him had he been more awake. 

“Sure you’re not,” Tom grinned, patting him on the shoulder. 

“I’m not!” John rolled so his chin rested on Tom’s leg. The seam of Tom’s pants had left an impression across his left cheek and one side of his hair stood upright where he’d slept on it.“Si- er- Tom. What time is it?” 

“Past your bedtime, apparently,” Tom laughed. He hadn’t missed John’s slip-up--Sometimes, when addled by sleepiness, he would lapse into old habits and call Tom “Sir” or even “Captain,” for which Tom teased him mercilessly.

John stuck out his tongue. He could be petulant, almost childlike, when Tom teased him. It struck Tom that as a side effect of having his childhood ripped away, some parts of John had never grown up, preserving childlike mannerisms that were strangely incongruous with the rest of him. It was endearing and tragic in equal measure and made Tom’s chest ache with a strange sadness. He cupped John’s face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss. 

“What was that for?” John smiled. The expression was crooked, his mouth pulling slightly more to one side. It was yet another quirk that Tom realized few others knew about. 

“Because I like you, in case you hadn’t figured that out.” He kissed the left corner of his mouth where it still drew higher than the right in a lopsided grin. 

“As if last night wasn’t enough of an indication,” John shot back. Tom’s face heated at the memory. He’d taken John apart bit by bit with his mouth and fingers until his limbs were loose and shaky and he’d begged in a low whisper with his fists clutching ineffectively at the standard-issue sheets. 

“I remember,” Tom said. He cleared his throat. They sat in silence for a moment before John drew in a breath and spoke.

“Could I-” he looked away, started again, “Could I be spontaneous again?” 

“It’s not spontaneous if you ask,” Tom pointed out. John gave him an exaggerated frown.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, flopping back down to rest his chin on Lasky’s leg again, “But I guess you have a point.” He paused, looking for a moment as if he had something else to say. Instead, saying nothing, he pressed his palm to the fly of Tom’s pants. 

“I want to return the favor,” he said. His crooked smile was back, but he was obviously nervous behind it, his voice slightly shaky. 

“That’s definitely more spontaneous,” Tom muttered. 

“So is that- can I-” John’s temporary boldness seemed to be waning. Tom grabbed his wrist and held it in place.

“Of course you can,” he answered, incomplete though the question was. John gave him a quick, nervous grin before lifting Tom’s shirt and pressing his mouth below his belly button. Tom took a sharp breath through his nose, noting with amusement that he’d done the same thing to John not even twenty-four hours before. Imitation is flattery and all that, he thought vaguely, the rest of his mind hazy. By the time John fumbled his way past the button and zipper, Tom was already half-hard and glad to be freed from the confines of his pants. 

John paused then. He looked wide-eyed and overwhelmed, as though he hadn’t quite thought this far ahead and his brain was finally catching up with the rest of him. 

“Just your hand, John,” Lasky said, snapping him from his paralysis. He obliged, uncertain at first, then more confidently until he reached an uncertain rhythm. “There you go.” Lasky let his eyes fall shut and leaned back. 

He opened them again when he felt John hesitantly touch his tongue to his tip. 

“You know what you’re doing there?” He asked, only half joking. He hooked one thumb in John’s jaw and pulled his face up to meet his eyes. 

“What is that, a challenge?” John spoke indistinctly around the finger in his mouth but still, somehow, managed to look indignant. Tom considered him for a moment. His hair was still a mess, sticking straight up on one side and sideways on the other, the blush painted across his cheeks visible even in the dim light, his lips stretched where Lasky’s thumb pulled at his mouth. He should have looked like a mess. Instead, at least to Lasky, he looked endearingly debauched. 

“If you’re sure,” Tom said, withdrawing his hand. John held his gaze and licked him from root to tip, a wordless “challenge accepted.” He did it twice more before taking Tom into his mouth, wrapping his hand around what he couldn’t fit. 

“Careful,” Tom choked out, tapping him softly on the cheek, “Teeth.” 

“Yessir,” he responded, breathless, pulling off of him momentarily to speak. Tom felt a twinge of redoubled arousal at the words and damn, he’d have to unpack that later. “Lasky, I mean. Tom. Whatever.” 

“Christ, John,” he said as John stopped talking and returned to his ministrations, “If you make it so I pop a boner every time someone calls me ‘sir’ I’m gonna get fired.” 

John laughed around the dick in his mouth. It vibrated through Tom’s body and his breath caught. He rested his hand on John’s head, running his fingers through the dark, messy hair. 

John’s technique was messy, a rough approximation of what Tom had done to him the night before, but Tom almost prefered it that way. John was, in this sense, unrefined, and Tom liked that he could be the first and only person to see him like this. He liked the process of teaching him, staying by his side as he went so far out of his depth. 

And messy though it was, it was effective. Tom wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he felt his climax fast approaching, building in his gut with a speed that caught him off guard. 

“John,” he gasped, “John, I’m-” 

Before he could force out a warning, he tipped over the edge and came shuddering in the wet heat of John’s mouth. John choked but, to his credit, did not pull off immediately. When he did, he sat up, coughing gracelessly into his elbow.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Lasky said sheepishly, “Are you okay?” John nodded and gave him a weak thumbs up. He swallowed hard, pulling a face. Once his breathing had evened out, Tom pulled him into a kiss. He could taste himself on John’s mouth. It was a bitter, unpleasant flavor, but he relished it nonetheless. 

“You sure you’re okay?” He cupped John’s face in his hands. 

“I’m fine,” John replied, smirking, “Sir.” 

“That’s a cheap shot and you know it,” Lasky grinned, “But I’ll admit I deserved it.” He pushed John by the shoulder until he was lying on his back, then flipped himself so he was braced above him. “Let me make it up to you.” 

 

Lasky sat awake with John curled against him once more, this time minus several articles of clothing. John was asleep, his pale skin marred with purpling marks, his breathing soft and even. He looked, for once in his life, peaceful. Tom smiled and let himself drift off to sleep, warmed by John’s body heat and the affection swelling in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially going to post this as its own piece, but it's thematically close to the first chapter of this fic so I thought it'd work better here


End file.
